“Help me out of this riding habit and into my nightdress.”
As she went through her nightly routine of washing her face and brushing her teeth, combing out her waist-length hair and re-braiding it, changing into bedclothes of shapeless, opaque, white muslin, with none of the allure of those Lady Florence had selected for her, Eleanor studied the bedchamber door. Had he left it open with a light burning as some sort of invitation? Or was a lamp left lit simply out of consideration for her?
The first part of this day, the part spent with Miles, had been immense fun. It was difficult to inject enthusiasm into drainage tiles, but her morning had been splendid. Part of her enjoyment was due to her optimism about Day Dreamer, but she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t credit her husband with being a personable, charming companion...who said he found her desirable as a woman.
His casual utterance provoked emotions that had lain dormant in her breast for the latter half of the day—unwieldy, churning emotions that she refused to put a name to. Somehow she had to get through the coming months without becoming ensnared in feelings. She slumped in her chair with her hands in her lap, shoulders rounded, and glared at herself in the dressing table mirror. She could not summon any optimism for a hopeful outcome. Lord Miles Everleigh was an excessively handsome gentleman—she’d never erase from her mind the stunning glory of him in the bath—and he possessed an amiable and chivalrous manner. The Dowager Duchess had it rightly. No female that drew breath could resist him.
Her intellectual curiosity about what happened between men and women already warred with her desire to protect her heart. Could she have amorous congress with Miles and remain unentangled? What if the result produced children? Lady Florence had instructed her in ways to prevent such an outcome but also advised her that such efforts were notoriously unreliable. If she gave herself to Miles, she feared she would cede to him the power to disorder her world, yet his proximity every night would prove difficult to resist. A quiet scoff left her lips. She was the most ridiculous of creatures, an infatuated woman. She briskly rose to her feet and stuck her tongue out at her reflection. Infatuation or no, it is not necessary to turn oneself into a mawkish, peagoose.
As she entered the bedchamber, her eyes went to the form of her husband asleep in a wing chair lit by the fading glow of the fireplace. A bed table lamp with the wick turned low provided the only additional light. Miles looked at ease in her father’s old velvet dressing gown and slippers. Even in sartorial disarray, she could have stood and gorged upon his features for endless minutes. A weighty tome lay open on his lap. Interested to know the topic of his reading, she peered over his shoulder and scanned the pages. Poor man. A soft giggle shook her shoulders. She clapped a hand to her mouth immediately. Lady Miles Everleigh never giggled.
He stirred, coming awake, and straightened in the chair to regard her through warm, sleepy eyes. “Eleanor…good, you have returned. Now I can seek my bed without worry. So, tell me, tomorrow, will you be able to school me in all the varieties of drainage tile?”
He had worried for her? “Apparently, as I am a female, my understanding must be deficient, and thus, I will need to return to Mr. Abram’s ovens for further edification. I insist that you accompany me next time. The scintillating topic of which types of earth make the best clay—accompanied by examples of said earth—is not to be missed, though my favorite pair of tan riding gloves is quite ruined.”
He responded to her quip with a light chuckle and closed the book on his lap with a snap, laying it on a petite side table next to the chair. He rose, and his gaze slid to her as he crossed to the bed, disrobed to his nightshirt and got under the covers, settling back into the fluffy white pillows with a groan of appreciation. “I, on the other hand, have spent the last four hours acquainting myself with the pages of The English Landed Estate—Its Administration and Management. Shall I educate you on the various advantages of chicken guano versus bullock manure and the dispersion rate of each per acre of turnips?”
Struggling to maintain a serious demeanor, Eleanor joined him in the great bed, lying on her back to stare at the ceiling, her arms straight at her sides. “Father is a great proponent of bullock manure. Perhaps the Hurst farm would benefit from your study. They grow turnips.” She almost managed her suggestion without snickering.
He threw her a conspiratorial grin. “An evening spent reading about the beneficial properties of manure does not match with my boyhood dreams of owning a private estate.” Miles reached and extinguished the bedside lamp and returned to lie on his back with his hands behind his head.
“You don’t grow turnips at Fairwood?” she teased. The dim light from the dying fire cast soft illumination throughout the chamber. Eleanor thought it… romantic …and promptly shied away from the thought.
“I don’t really know …I must make a note to ask Weldon.” He rolled to his side, propped his head up on an elbow and studied her.
In their intimate situation, each time he inhaled or exhaled, his every subtle movement, the woody smell of the soap he used, the glint as the dim light caught his eyes …in short, each detail of his person, aggravated her feeling of vulnerability, and the easy sense of comradery their banter had established became something else, something more fraught with expectancy. She bore the growing silent tension as long as she could.
“Why do you look at me so? What is it you want?”
“Mmm… that is a dangerous question with a variety of answers. I’ll offer you a simple one. I should like it very much if you would kiss me again.” His smile gleamed white in the dim light.
“Will you forever repeat my words to me?” She had spoken those exact words to Miles on her wedding night. She also remembered ensuing the kiss. The memory spurred her onto precarious ground. “If you wish.”
She rolled to her side and faced him. He did not move, merely waited—and watched. The distance between them lessened as she leaned toward him, closed her eyes and placed her lips fully on his. A rigid part of her softened in submission when he cupped her cheek and then wrapped an arm around her waist to bring her with him as he rolled over and laid her flat on her back. He took command of what she had initiated and deepened their kiss, breaking off only to use his lips to place butterfly-soft kisses on her cheekbones, her temples, under her jaw and down her neck before returning to her mouth. His arm left her waist, and his hand rose to the nape of her neck. Using both hands, he directed the position and attitude of her head with gentle pressure, moving her face to accommodate the infinite variety of kisses he bestowed on her. Pleasure followed pleasure until sensation drowned her, dragged her down into a world of melting bliss, a timeless world she could dwell in forever.
“Put your hands on me, Eleanor. Touch me,” he ordered and recaptured her mouth.
She didn’t fully understand what he wanted. Either her response was too slow, or he understood her confusion, for one at a time, each of his hands wrapped hers where they still fisted the bedding and placed them on his shoulders. Her palms opened on the smooth silkiness of his lawn nightshirt and then broadened to awareness of the warmth coming from the hard muscles working underneath. His kisses intensified as her hands, like two explorers on a quest of discovery, charted the unfamiliar territory of his shoulders, the hard column of his neck and sifted through the feathery softness of his hair. So lost was she to his seduction, that she stretched her length fully beneath him to revel in the press of his weight on her and held him with arms that wrapped his back. A languid warmth spread from her mouth to her breasts and lower to parts of her for which she knew no proper name. More. Her body demanded more of this bewitchment, for what he was doing to her was surely magic.
“Please,” she begged in a whisper. “Please.”
His dark form hovered above her. “Please what?” he murmured.
“I want more. Please …I’m…I’m willing.”
A dark image looming in profile, he stilled completely and then pulled away to brace himself on his side and regard her. She w
ished the light was better so she could read the details of his face. A shudder ran through her when his forefinger traced the outline of her lips ever so gently.
He breathed a long sigh. “No... no, I’m not convinced you are. I would not like to be accused of forcing you.” With her body in aching rebellion at the cessation of his kisses, he rolled over, pulling the coverlet with him, and presented her with his back.
“Sleep well, Eleanor. I look forward to more of your kisses.”
What! What did he mean he wasn’t convinced? Had she not participated fully? This man continued to say and do things that confounded her, halted all the rational turnings of her mind and reduced her to a state of wordless confusion. Bewilderment colored her thoughts, but foremost among them was one clear question. What must she do to convince him?
Chapter Fifteen
M
iles lay in bed in the early hours of the next morning and studied a sleeping Eleanor. At least sleep had found one of them. Following Eleanor’s innocent kiss and subsequently more ardent ones, his cock had taken the bit between its teeth and bolted, refusing to be reined in. With no possibility of self-relief, he’d disciplined himself to lie quietly and thought of manure and guano until the recalcitrant part submitted to governance—a lengthy procedure as he was out of practice with such things. Thanks to his lusty patronesses, not since his early days at Oxford had he spent an entire night aroused and aching from unconsummated dalliance.
Nevertheless, he would willingly endure many more nights of the same in furtherance of his campaign to win Eleanor. Indeed, the only weakness in his plan had been the possibility Eleanor would no longer warm to his kisses. Last night had proved he could discard that worry. She would be a delight to teach. At the memory of her response, the anatomical part of him that had provoked hours of sleeplessness awoke with renewed interest. He had more than a simple physical interest in her, however.
Though obstinately independent, Eleanor needed him. Her money and elevated station insulated her from much ugliness, but the world they lived in was unkind to a woman with no male relation to protect her, witness his gentle mother. Fury still heated his blood at the belittlement she’d endured from Edgar, the economies of life she’d had to practice in a home that had formerly been hers. The Chelsony estate had a dower house of significant size to which she should have removed after the death of her husband. However, Edgar had complained of the expense to make it habitable after a vacancy of many years and consigned his step-mother to rooms in a seldom-used wing of Chelsony Hall. Out of sight and out of mind. That her widow’s portion would have easily covered the costs of such renovation didn’t loosen Edgar’s purse. Had Miles wanted a permanent rift between him and his oldest brother, he would have pursued legal action to recover his mother’s funds. He still might.
Presumably, Eleanor had met his mother at Fairwood. What had she made of the Dowager Duchess? What had his mother made of Eleanor? He’d have to ask, though, on his mother’s part, he felt confident he knew. Her actions spoke of a sympathetic leaning toward his wife.
Just as he couldn’t abide the thought of his mother under the management of the current Duke of Chelsony, neither could he stand the thought of Eleanor dealing alone after the death of her father and mother. Oh, she’d carry on in her independent and outwardly confident manner, but during the two weeks he had “courted” her in London, he’d seen another woman, one vulnerable and not self-assured, one easily wounded and lonely, one of lively wit and dry humor that only emerged when she felt in safe company.
He knew what she’d do. She’d entomb herself at Rutledge. What a wretched waste. More than most of her sex, a harmonious marriage would benefit Eleanor. He’d witnessed such a marriage between his mother and father, seen how the love between them had allowed his shy and retiring mother to flower into self-confident womanhood. He wanted such sympathetic companionship for himself. He wanted that for Eleanor.
Slipping quietly from their bed, he used the chamber pot and entering their shared dressing room, rang for Mr. Hopwood. Another day in borrowed clothes. While not a male milliner, he enjoyed knowing his turn-out was impeccable. He laughed at himself silently—his preoccupation with his dress a result of spending too much time in the company of ladies, no doubt. It was too much to hope for his instructions to have reached Fairwood in time to enable his mother to dispatch a return messenger to arrive with his bits and bobs by today. However, it was not too much to expect the arrival of a persistent nuisance in the guise of an agent of the Prince Regent. Hopwood arrived in conjunction with the early morning tray bearing Eleanor’s hot chocolate and his coffee.
“Good morning, my lord. A housemaid will be up shortly with hot water. Mr. Walters took the liberty of preparing a selection of Lord Rutledge’s attire suitable to receive such company as may call upon you today.”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Hopwood.” He digested what his valet had said. “Is there a particular guest anticipated by the omniscient Mr. Walters?”
Mr. Hopwood continued to lay out a display of morning coats in blacks, blues and greens, both single and double-breasted, some with high standing collars of black velvet and waistcoats that ranged from scarlet to an ordinary tan. “Mr. Walters didn’t see fit to share that information with me, sir, but I might hazard a guess as to expect the Prince Regent’s agent. He was seen in the common room of a local posting house last night.”
“Indeed. He has made remarkable time. I shall marshal my forces to present a rousing defense.” Miles shrugged out of his robe and nightclothes and threw a white shirt with frothy white cuffs on over his head. He next drew on a pair of black stockings and black breeches, forgoing the smalls Hopwood had set out—he drew the line at wearing someone else’s linens—and pulled on his riding boots. He held his foot out and examined the immaculately clean and beautifully polished footwear. “Mr. Hopwood, my commendations. You have made an excellent job of bringing these tubes of sodden leather back from the dead. I believe I can see myself in the result. I confess to being astonished.”
“Thank you, sir. The blacking formula has been handed down in my family from father to son and is a closely held secret. I can tell you that it contains a dash of champagne. Now, if you will be seated, I will shave you, and might I recommend a slight trim of your hair?”
“Good morning, my lord.” Eleanor stood in the door to the bedroom, wrapped from toe to chin in her dressing gown and nodded at his valet. “Mr. Hopwood.”
“Your ladyship,” replied Mr. Hopwood.
One of the many things Miles found to like in Eleanor was her egalitarian treatment of her servants. She was not one to look through the staff who served her as if they were invisible. He supposed it was a result of growing up with only servants as confidants and friends instead of her own class. Unlike many aristocrats, she saw those who served her as people.
“Good morning to you, Lady Miles.” While his valet had a very steady hand with the razor, Miles didn’t wish to test the limits of his expertise by moving. He watched from the corner of his eye as she crossed to the small table by the door, picked up her chocolate and retreated once again to the bedroom. Hopwood continued the steady scraping of his chin and neck between applications of soap froth and hot towels.
Her voice came through the open door. “You may have the dressing room, my lord. Sally will attend me in the bedroom.”
Fair enough. “It might be prudent to linger at the residence this morning… and wear a morning dress appropriate to receive callers.”
“Oh?”
“Mr. Hopwood advises me that the agent for Prinny was observed in the salon at a local posting house.”
His observation was met with silence from the bedroom.
He opened his mouth to ask her to attend the interview, but he was forestalled by Mr. Hopwood.
“My lord, if you will please refrain from moving your jaw?” his valet admonished. “It would expedite your shave and more than likely prolong your life.”
Have been ef
fectively silenced, he didn’t speak to Eleanor again until breakfast was served at the unfashionably early of time of 9:00 a.m. At least the sun was up—a nice change from the previous morning. The country hours observed at Rutledge would take some getting used to.
“I told Walters we would serve ourselves,” Eleanor said as he walked into the dining room. She glanced at him from her place at the table. “On the sideboard there are hot cakes with syrup and butter, sausages and fried potatoes.”
After creating a pile of sausages and potatoes that threatened to spill over his plate at any movement, he joined her at the table. He loved sausages and fried potatoes. “I would like for you to be present during my interview with the Prince Regent’s agent.”
“I was going to insist on it. What will you say to him?”
“I will assure him that we are married in every way and conduct myself as to give him no reason to question my statement.” While he steadily devoured the sausages, he checked with Eleanor and was amused by the pink flush that had arisen in her cheeks. She looked the image of a blushing bride, and that was why he wanted her present. Plus, he had some ideas about how to add to that becoming blush.
“So your intent is to perjure yourself to an agent of His Royal Highness.”
“Perjure is a harsh term. Say, rather, a temporary bending of the truth.” He forked another sausage into his mouth and offered her a benign smile as he chewed.
“A temporary lie?”
He patted his mouth with a serviette. “Yes. A false statement given with the surety it will imminently be made true.” Large portions of fried potatoes marched into his mouth with the regularity of a dock laborer loading a sailing vessel. He was aware of her scrutiny the entire time. Once his plate was clean, he again bestowed a benevolent smile on Eleanor and took a large swallow of coffee. “Did you have some of these potatoes? They are exceptionally good. You must send my praise to the cook. I neglected to compliment you on how well turned out you are this morning. That rose color is particularly becoming to you, and your maid has done your hair in a most flattering style.”
A Husband for Hire (The Heirs & Spares Series Book 1) Page 15